#svad17

The swiftness of his bashful smile and dip of his head has not changed, always appearing whenever she catches him in an act of avoidance or when she makes a brazen acknowledgment of his appeal. Then the smile is erased, replaced with a slight furrow of his brow and a squaring of his shoulders that means he is about to enter his professorial mode.“Mentally, yes, I mature in similar ways to everyone else.” His fingers part, right hand waving through the air as he keeps talking. “My memories increase, emotions change, I even believe I am becoming more introverted, which scientifically is correlated with the natural process of aging.”  

Wanda realizes that she knew this part of it without having ever really considered the changes. If she thinks back to the way his mind felt the first time she touched it in the cradle it was so new, so innocent, but throughout their many years together, minds almost always in tandem, his thoughts have transformed, grown more complicated, more perceptive, yet still calm and tightly organized. “And physically?”

His fingertips find each other again, nervously tapping in time with the syllables of his answer. “Physically,” his voice drops off, eyes uncertain as he stares to the side and then slowly shifts his attention back to her, “no. Dr. Cho believes my body could continue to function indefinitely in this form.”

“That’s what I suspected.” The coolness of her response is not intentional but she stands by it, attempting to control the niggling guilt in her stomach from growing into an apology, even with his wide-eyed, apologetic gaze.

Sighing is an action that took him time to utilize appropriately, the careful way he analyzed the various types, always asking her the intention behind her sighs for better understanding and categorization, was both irritating and endearing to experience. But it means the precise and defeated exhale from his lungs carries just enough force and vibration to convey how much he has been dreading this conversation. The mattress dips as he sits next to her, the firmness of his bicep along her upper back a stinging reminder of his eternal youth more than a comfort. “Wanda,” her name is whispered as if in prayer, a plea to understand, “why now?”

Wanda leans her head back against his shoulder, eyes locked on the swirling pattern in the finishing of the ceiling as she contemplates the impetus for raising the inquiry. “I found three gray hairs this morning."

“I see.” The tone is not as empathetic as she needs, annoyed at the subtle amusement in his elongation of the I. “It is a simple biological process. The catalase enzyme within your hair follicles functions in such a way to break down the buildup of hydrogen peroxide, maintaining the typical color of the hair. Graying simply means that those follicles have a deficit in catalase. It is not catastrophic.”  

Typically the no-nonsense scientific lens with which he analyzes the world is comforting. Typically. “It means I'm getting old and you're not.” Wanda disentangles from his embrace, crossing her arms as she stares at him. “What happens when I'm a shriveled old lady and you're still, well,” she brings her arms out, waving them to emphasize the perfection of his synthetic body, “every sculptors’ wet dream.”

The nonchalance of his shrug is infuriating. “I do not see why anything would change.”

“Really?” Despite her withering stare he persists in acting like this is not an earth-shattering revelation. “What about when I start to always look like I've been in the bath for too long?”  

“Wrinkles are of no concern to me. You are already developing lines near your eyes and mouth and it is not alarming in any way.”  

Her hands fly to her face, poking at the corners of her eyes and trying to smooth out the creases she can feel near her mouth. Another glance at his unmarred face serves to remind her of their disconnect, her mind instantly coming up with every single instance she can think of when an aging wife is dropped for a twenty-something model. “One day Vizh, you're going to realize I'm too old for you. That it's time to trade me in for younger mod- ”

“Wanda,” his voice is stern, cutting off the increasingly dismal vision of their future, hands coming to grip her shoulders, eyes steady and serious. “that is preposterous.”

“Is it?”

Vision continues to stare at her, eyes switching between swirling to the left and then the right, a scowl of concentration weighing down his mouth. Three times in a row he parts his lips but then clamps them shut. Eventually he begins to speak, the millisecond too long pauses between the words an indication of how carefully he is choosing them. “I have always envied you.” Vision pauses, eyes boring into her in anticipation of a response but she remains silent, staring curiously at him. “By the very nature of my synthetic compound and the influence of the Mindstone I do not scar, will never wrinkle, will never develop the pangs of aging.” Wanda immediately wants to push back, point out how incredibly awesome that sounds, but holds her tongue at the growing sense of remorse coming from his mind at his inability to experience this aspect of humanity. “My body, unlike yours, lacks the ability to narrate the story of my life.”

“Vizh, that’s,” she’s not sure how to finish the sentence. Ridiculous? Not a big deal? Not true? None of the options seem appropriate to the hint of despair in his voice, the downturn of his eyes as he picks restlessly at lint clinging to the bed sheet. So she settles for just a simple, reassuring, “Vizh” and a hand to his shoulder. Which seems to be the ideal response, his mouth quirking up just enough to form a gentle, slightly nervous smile.

"For instance," suddenly he is gone, phasing through the mattress and then the floor, re-appearing at the end of the bed, taking a seat once more as he gingerly wraps his fingers around her bare ankle. A bloom of curiosity expands quickly through her mind, rushing down to kickstart her heart into a flutter as he traces his thumb along the faded scar hugging the curve of her ankle. “Recall when you tore the tendon here.”

“Yeah, that sucked,” and it did, she was half-awake on April Fools day,  walking down the stairs near the living quarters when she ran into a wall of saran wrap, freaked out, and missed the last two steps. The sound of her tendon snapping echoes clearly in her mind as if it just happened.  “Sam still owes me for that, I was out for eight weeks because of the surgery.”

An amused nod joins his response, “You were quite irate, understandably so.” Then her heart seems to stop functioning when he bends down, placing a soft, reverential kiss to the surgical scar, eyes not missing the tiny smirk on his lips when he pulls away. His fingers skim up along her calf, stopping at a pucker of pink marring her skin. “This occurred on our first joint mission,” his voice drops down and she can feel the memory stirring in his brain, latches onto it with a flick of her wrist and a strand of scarlet, “a stray bullet and your scream, the first quantifiable proof I could experience fear.” Another brush of his lips sends tremors up her spine, only intensifying as his fingers trail up to her knee, other hand guiding her right leg closer, the pads of his thumbs rubbing circles on the twin scars. “These I am unsure of the origin but you have worn them for as long as I have known you.”

Wanda closes her eyes in an attempt to quell the tears forming as she finds herself back in Sokovia when she was ten years old. “There were shards of glass under the bed, after the mortar. We didn't risk moving, even with the pain.”

Finally she opens her eyes to take in the sorrow on his face, the somber turn of his irises as his thumbs continue to trace the matching scars. “For Magnus,” a slow, solemn kiss to her left knee, “and Magda,” then one to her right. Vision moves on from her knees, hands rising up her thighs until he reaches the edge of her shorts. “May I?”

A disbelieving laugh mixes with her tears, hand pulling them from her cheeks as she nods her head. “Always the gentleman,” because he always asks, always seeks her consent and approval even when she’s fairly certain being married for this long is a pretty good sign she’s okay with it. The cotton of her shorts turn incorporeal, phasing away as the trailing caress of his fingers dances around the three inch scar on her left thigh. “Let’s not talk about that one.”

“Agreed,” and he seals away the pain with another, slightly longer press of his lips to her skin, the cool touch of air once he moves on leading to the development of goosebumps all over her body. Gently he nudges her torso with his hands, an unspoken request for her to lay down, which she complies with instantly. “This one,” Vision pushes her tank top up, bunching the fabric around her waist before hooking his finger into the top of her underwear and teasingly dipping the fabric down enough to reveal a half-inch raised line above her pelvic bone, “is one of my favorites.” The sly smile on his face when he glances up at her arrests all the air from her lungs, an almost silent, amused groan escaping with the air as she flops her head back against the pillows, savoring the languid strokes of his fingers over the scar. “French Polynesia.”  

Their honeymoon was idyllic, minus the incessant calls from their teammates late at night and the unexpectedly sharp corners of the nightstand in their bungalow. “That was your fault, you know.”

A breathy, reminiscent chuckle blows against her skin before he rests his forehead against her hip, his embarrassment still as fresh today as it was back then. “In my defense,” the words lack conviction from the get-go, an explanation they both know is faulty but he continues, the movement of his lips into a smile grazing against her skin, “it was the first instance where you requested I attempt phasing while engaging in intercourse.” His hands grip her thighs while he presses a loving kiss against the scar sending a tremor of pleasure twisting through her body, so forceful it causes her toes and fingers to curl in delight. “I admit to a slight miscalculation.”

“You think?”

Vision breaks from his position, lifting himself just enough to crawl up along her body until their faces are even, allowing her to count the rotations of the gears in his eyes. “To be fair, I did have to explain to the rental agent the surprising amount of blood from your injury.”

The image of him from that day is crystal clear in her mind, words fumbling unconvincingly from his mouth as he told the black haired agent (whose face was wholly unamused) the lie Wanda had concocted about slipping on the freshly finished wood floor. Wanda can’t stop the elation engulfing her chest from developing into a dopey grin, “You were so nervous.” She reaches her arms out to pull him into an embrace, hungry to feel his cool lips against her own mouth, but her arms go straight through him with a “Hey!”

A surprisingly coquettish wink occurs in his left eye accompanying an equally flirtatious grin. “I am not done yet.” With that he phases away, the weight of his body re-emerging along her legs as he resumes his prior position at her hip. “My other favorites,” is blown away by the gust of air to her body as he phases her tank top off, a tantalizing chill that makes her long for the heat of his body against hers. Affectionately he runs his hands along the fading stretch marks branching on either side of her navel.  “The miracle of life.”

Wanda scrunches her eyes closed, smirking at the tickle of his fingers up and down her stomach. “You’re so melodramatic.”

The only response to her claim is a burst of joy in his mind and two lingering, passionate kisses to her stomach before shifting his weight to study horizontal scar on her side. “Samhain the Druid”

“What an ass.” She shrugs at the incredulous raise of his brow, “What? We had just finished decorating the house and he ruined it.”

“And turned innocent children into his henchmen.”

Wanda rolls her eyes, shoving his face playfully away from her body, “Yes that was far worse, but still, I could never get the ashes out of that rug.”

An amused shake of his head and a quick peck to the scar ends the memory of that day as Vision turns his head up, meeting her gaze before transferring his weight to the side, face coming to rest against her chest. The pang of grief in his mind permeates deep within hers, tears forming anew in her eyes at the hidden scar he is examining. Tenderly he grips her sides, lowering his face to lay a worshipful, sobering kiss in the valley of her breasts, right over her heart. “Sokovia.” They lay in silence, allowing a moment of remembrance for Pietro. When he moves once more she can see the residue of tears on his own face and she lifts her hands to cup his cheeks. Wanda does not miss the fact that there is no joy in his eyes when he grips her wrist, turning his face to bring her palm firmly to his mouth. “Thanos."

"One of many.”

"Unfortunately." Any warmth left in the atmosphere is sucked from the room, his lips hovering just above her skin as he proceeds to her wrist, a whispered “Edinburgh,” ending with another deliberately gentle kiss. Vision proceeds to her shoulder, a minuscule smile breaking the solemn line of his mouth as he touches the nearly invisible cluster of pink dots mixing in with her freckles.

Wanda inhales deeply, struggling to control the waver in her voice, pushing past the unhappy memories to focus on better times. “That was also you.”

“I am aware,” finally a full smile parts his lips again, and she finds herself responding with one of her own. “It was my first and last attempt at deep frying food."

Wanda knows the next scar in his path, can feel the memories of electricity coursing through her body with each shock of the collar, but she has no desire to relive it right now, desperately wants to keep hold of the lightened mood of the latest twist in her story. So she says a plaintive, “Vizh,” fingers curling around the sides of his head, drawing his gaze away from her neck and up to her. “Come here.” And it works, the comfort of his weight spreading out as he lays over her, the intoxicating contrast of the cold patches of vibranium warring with the warmth of his skin against her own igniting a deep, insatiable desire within her soul.

Tenderly he runs a hand along her cheek, the movement latching an invisible string to her eyelids and drawing them closed as he leans down to whisper in her ear, “That was only a fraction of your life.”

Her body shivers at the wisp of hot air against her ear, knees reactively bending to cage him in, trapping him (quite willingly) against her. “I don't want you to read the whole thing in one sitting.” Wanda opens her eyes enough to peer at him, studying the adorable tilt to the right side of his mouth and the slow, steady turn of his irises as he waits for her next move. “You know," she sighs again, hands working in a lazy semi-circular pattern on his chest, "just because you’re adorable doesn't erase the fact I’m getting older.”

Instead of the annoyance she expected at reopening the issue there is a softening of the muscles in his face, his body relaxing against hers as he sweeps the stray hairs from her forehead. “It appears you have overlooked the underlying narrative of our relationship.”

“Oh?”

Wanda moves away from the window, fingers gripping a mug in hopes of pulling its scalding heat into her body. It’s been raining for six days, not a hard rain, but a constant depressing drizzle that is just enough to be a deterrent to explore the area more. The room she’s called home since coming to Edinburgh is compact, a tiny kitchenette with a solitary burner and an oven too small to hold a normal sized dish, a murphy bed folded up for now but whenever she wants to sleep she has to shift her belongings in front of the door, and a wobbly desk with a tablet, radio, and handwritten coordinates for her next destination.

Wakanda was a paradise that only lasted for a few weeks, the political climate and societal disapproval of their fugitive status meant they agreed to leave instead of stay (though T’Challa offered to keep housing them) just so they didn’t push the bounds of that alliance. Since then they move in erratic patterns, each individually for three cities (one week per city) and then they meet up for a week to regroup, check up, train, and begin again.

The ambient static from the radio cuts out, four quick beeps indicate someone is about to talk with her, and so Wanda closes the two foot distance to sit in the uneven chair. “Wanda, this is Nat, you there?”

“I’m here.”

“Good,” silence falls on the room again, broken only by the clink of her rings against the ceramic mug and the slosh of tea as she takes a sip, waiting for the update. “Just came across some chatter about some sightings of an unidentified flying object just south of you.”

Wanda finds her mouth tilting up ever so slightly at the words. “I’ll check it out and report back. You sure it’s not just a bird again? I had to leave Barcelona three days early for a pelican.”

Laughter comes through the radio and it warms her far better than the tea, always enjoying these brief moments of human interaction, their orders strict from Steve that they must keep out of the public eye as much as possible. “Well, you never know. To be fair, it was a big pelican.”

“Okay, I’ll check into it.”

“Good, be safe.”

“I will.” The static returns, a soothing white noise that at least fills the void of silence. Wanda sets her tea down, careful not to place it on the slanted portion of the desk, lest she spill it all over her tablet like she did her coordinate list the other day. Once she’s sure it’s not tumbling over, she grabs a green wool knit hat and coat, pulling the collar up and the fabric tight around her, preparing for the saturated cold outside.

Her door opens out into a tight alleyway, well she should call it a close if she wants to blend in with the locals, the tap of her shoes on the bricks echoing around her, a deafening sound that she attempts to muffle with smaller, more careful steps. The close opens up onto a bustling brick-paved street, tiny shops and restaurants lining both sides, carts selling all forms of haggis producing steam that rises up into the misty evening sky. Wanda does her best to tuck her head down, obscuring her face with her coat as she strolls along the street, eyes shifting from side to side to pick up on any questionable movement or knowing stares. Occasionally she’ll glance up but then realizes the futility of attempting to decipher information from darkened skies.

A quarter mile down the road she cuts into another close, checking over her shoulder to ensure she hasn’t been followed, and then she approaches a ladder hanging down about halfway into the alley. It’s a bit higher up than it looked on the satellite image. Wanda glances around one more time before her hands glow red and a shaky boost of her powers lifts her high enough to grip the ladder, climbing up until she finds herself on a flat, vacant rooftop. Slowly she weaves between pipes and power boxes, ducking behind a generator until she reaches the eastern end of the building where she attempts to lean casually against the stone edge, enjoying the glimmer of the castle lights through the murky clouds. A shimmer in her periphery and a rush of air against her neck coaxes her mouth into a grin. “Took you long enough, Steve expects me on the road in 36 hours.”

“My sincerest apologies, given my proclivity at failing to apprehend you, it required a great deal more convincing to receive clearance to pursue the lead.”

Wanda slides her eyes to the side, taking in the sharp lines of his features contrasting against the softness of his muted navy thermal. “What do you tell them, when you come back empty handed?”

Hesitantly he steps closer to her, leaning his forearms on the stone to mirror her own stance. “It varies, sometimes I inform them the intel was fallible and there were no clear indications you were in that locale. Other times that you somehow received information regarding my approach and evaded my detection. The majority of the time I simply explain that the intel was old and though there were signs of your stay, none of them indicated you were still in the city.”

“Never that I overpowered you?”

“No.” Vision shakes his head, mouth settling into a disapproving slant at the suggestion. “There is no need to justify their fears.”

If he can feel the intensity of her stare, he does not betray it, face tilted down to take in the lives meandering on the streets below, so Wanda focuses instead on her hands, watching as her fingers fold together and then unfold. “How was Barcelona?”

“Splendid.” The pleased smile on his face resonates in the way the word starts low and ends with a short, perfectly enunciated syllable. Vision turns his head towards her, confirming the upward curve of his lips, the excited wave of his hands as he continues to talk pulling her own mouth up into a broad smile, and she can’t help from leaning towards him a bit more, shoulder just barely pressing into his arm. “Your recommendations were quite enjoyable, particularly the Parc Guell.”

“I thought you’d like that one.”

“Indeed,” he looks down at her, eyes gauging her reaction, a swift click of his irises counterclockwise as he seems to determine his next comment is acceptable. “Though it would have been far better with company.”

The ache of loneliness in his voice is reciprocated in her own chest, tired of running, tired of tight quarters and lumpy mattresses, tired of never being able to spend more than ten minutes in his presence. “Maybe next time.”

“Maybe.” Silence descends around them, not uncomfortable nor unwelcomed, but amiable in the most comfortable way, a mutual desire to simply be in each other’s presence, a warm, soft blanket of calm to shoo away the damp loneliness of being on the run. An icy wind blows past them and Wanda shivers, yanking her coat tighter around her. “You are cold.” Not a question nor an indictment, but a concerned statement. “Is it not possible to relocate to your quarters where it is warmer?”

Wanda would be lying if she claimed to have never thought about it, if she denied the confusion and frustration in the way her heart’s been fluttering when curtains blow or she awakens to a noise outside, longing to return to a time when she took for granted his inability to comprehend personal boundaries. “No, the room is hooked into the communication system, it’s set up to instantly recognize any of you and send an automatic relay to the others that something is wrong. It is far too risky. Plus, it is not too cold.”

An uncharacteristically disapproving hmmm vibrates his lips as his eyes focus on the lights in the distance, mind churning thoughts around in a lulling pattern. “I might have an alternative solution.”

“Oh?” She turns fully towards him now, arms crossed and eyebrow raised in curiosity, lifting higher at his sheepish grin and the meticulous interlocking wiggle of his fingers.

“Yes.” Another nervous smile dancing along his lips spreads a warmth through her body, no longer concerned about the cold, attention fully arrested by the man in front of her. “I suppose I should just,” he waves a hand, thoughts cutting off as his eyes stop spinning and a thin line of concentration forms on his mouth. “Since you seem to believe yourself impervious to the cold despite alternative, compelling evidence from your recent illness in Munich.”

“That soup was delicious by the way.”

A surprised and embarrassed half grin goes along with a tiny shrug, “Oh, you are welcome, though I did not make it.”

“I know, I said it was delicious.” The shift in his mood is instant, from bashful, fumbling nerves to an amused and flirtatious smirk. The combination is adorable and disarming, drawing her to touch his arm, overjoyed at the soft smile her touch brings to his lips. “You were saying?”

“Oh yes,” he touches his fingertips to the top of her hand as he continues to explain his apparent grand plan, “because of Munich and the anticipated forecast for Edinburgh I have procured a room in the hotel below us.” The explanation stops momentarily, blue irises rotating left and then right as he allows time for a response, but she has none, heartbeat increasing at the various implications this action could have, yet she is fairly certain he has done this under no pretext or presumptions. “If that is amenable the reservation is for room 416. I will meet you there momentarily?”

Wanda nods her head and grins up at him, squeezing his arm reassuringly. “Sounds perfect.”

And he is gone, body dissolving with the rain as he sinks through the roof. Wanda sighs, eyes skimming the rooftops, enjoying the gentle glow of the city lights reflected in the puddles for one more moment as she prepares herself to climb back down the ladder, feeling particularly jealous of his phasing ability.

Collar back up and hat pulled down she returns to the main street long enough to walk through the ornate golden doorway of the hotel into an entry way dripping with historically inspired modern finishes. Hesitantly she approaches the mustached and smiling man at the front desk. “Good evening, how may I help you?”

“Um,” given the paranoia birthed from the strict orders to not engage with the public, Wanda finds her fingers curling into tight fists as her eyes roam the surroundings, attempting to be cognizant of anyone who seems to think she looks familiar. “I need a key to room 416.”

She’s certain this won’t work, knows the procedures for hotels and wonders if Vision understands she probably needs more than just a room number, which then morphs into a persistently curious thought of how exactly Vision arranged this given his fairly recognizable features. “Ah yes, Victor informed me an attractive young lady would be joining him.” The knowing wink from the man causes a rush of heat to her face and she hopes she’s not blushing too much. “Here you are.”

“Thanks.” Quickly she ducks into the hallway, eyes focused on the floor in case she comes across anyone, making sure to take the stairs instead of the elevator to avoid the chance of being stuck in an enclosed space with plenty of opportunities for someone to scrutinize her face. Thankfully there is no one and she makes it to the room, opening the door and breathing in a sigh of relief as she closes it. “Vizh?” Wanda studies the room, nodding in approval at the golden sconces tastefully placed on the wall, a four-post mahogany bed filling the available space, and a large bay window overlooking the Royal Mile. Most importantly, however, is the blissful touch of warm air, her current hide-out lacking a working heater or fireplace, and she shimmies out of her coat, removing her hat, fingers combing through her flattened hair.

“I hope it was not troublesome to get a key, Olivier assured me it would not be a problem.”

Wanda smiles at his voice, turning to let him know everything went fine but then she gasps, hands raising, encased in red as she stares at a tall, lithe blonde-haired and blue eyed man standing near the window that for some reason is wearing the same navy thermal, annoyingly buttoned all the way up, and black slacks as Vision had on the roof. “V..Vision?”

A nervous smile joins his shuffling feet as he stares up at the ceiling, out the window, and then at her, hand lifting delicately to emphasize his words. “I have experienced an increase in downtime and have been striving to better understand my abilities, particularly the boundaries of my molecular manipulation. See.” In less than two seconds he stands before her, crimson skin and shiny, intricate vibranium weaving through his muscles.

Wanda opens her mouth to ask for a more direct explanation and then he gives her the full demonstration. Slowly his body shifts, not a new sight, Wanda the go-to wardrobe consultant for him, but it’s different this time, his slacks and thermal staying the same, instead the red of his skin and the gleam of vibranium dull, shifting into pale, smooth porcelain. Her eyes widen as the change moves up his body, the dot of vibranium on his chin disappearing, gears in his eyes fading to a soft, far less intense blue, and then he has ears and hair, forehead no longer marred by the yellow glow of the Mindstone. Wanda doesn’t even realize her actions until it's too late, walking slowly towards the window, hand reaching out to press hesitantly against his forehead. Despite appearances, she can still feel the curve of the Mindstone and the cool touch of vibranium but he’s no longer Vision, still insanely attractive and she wonders if he somehow knew her prior preference for tall blondes (though now it is much more skewed towards crimson synthezoids) or if he is just really good at guessing.

“This is really weird, Vizh.” It’s a surprise when her fingers brush through the blonde locks, though his clothing is always the correct texture for whatever fabric he’s mimicking, she still expected her hands to simply go through this facade. Her eyes travel along the new features, his emotions more clouded and difficult to decipher without the gears in his irises. She finds she misses those, misses the soothing task of counting each click and rotation. Slowly her hand travels along his cheek, impressed by the fact he’s even managed to introduce the soft texture of hair along his jaw, and then to the side of his head, thumb tracing the edges of his ear lobe which causes him to shiver. “Vizh this is-” The breeze from the slightly ajar window carries away her words, heart beating so loudly she can’t hear her own thoughts as he brings a hand to cup her own.

“My intention was to show you in Barcelona, but,”

“The damn pelican.”

This not-Vision smiles at her, and the half-cocked, close lipped arc confirms he’s still him underneath the guise. “Yes, I,” he pauses, moving his body closer to her, other hand wrapping around the curve of her ribs and she’s fairly certain they’re in the desert now, every juncture where they touch a raging wildfire. “We could live like this, could evade prying eyes.”

The last time they met, in Belarus behind a shed, the rest of the rogue team less than a mile away, she asked if he’d ever drop the Accords, if he’d ever turn his back on being a savior, ever choose his own wants over the needs of the world. He’d gotten close then, close enough for her to feel the fuzz of his sweater, the humid touch of his breath on her forehead. But then Clint yelled from down the street, concerned and with a dangerous edge to his voice, and Vision phased away without an answer. “Are you,” the words leave her mind, thoughts colliding like the raindrops on the window, splattering into tiny, incoherent puddles as he turns his face, cool, gentle lips pressing reverently into her palm.

“Yes.” Wanda had always assumed, naively it seems, that she’d make the first move, be the one to coax him from his innocent aloofness, help him realize the feelings he was clearly unsure about defining. Instead his hands travel to gingerly cup her face and she knows she’s smiling like a fool, can feel the ache in her cheeks intensify as he leans closer to her, his thumb brushing her skin, and in her excitement Wanda grips his wrists as he closes the distance, tenderly kissing her. If it was ever in doubt that time does not truly exist this moment cements its abstractness, the world frozen, the rain hovering in the air outside and the whir of the heater grinding to a halt as the only movement is their lips and the scrunch of his fingers in her hair and the rhythm of his racing pulse under her hands.

Eventually he pulls back, an anxious, joyous, terrified, and yet relieved smile flickering along his mouth and in his eyes. If she focuses enough she can even make out the turn of almost indiscernible gears in the blue. “Took you long enough.”

His laugh always catches her by surprise, a full-bodied yet tightly controlled chuckle that crinkles the skin around his mouth and half-lidded eyes. “My apologies.” Gently he leans down, pressing a chaste, fluttering kiss to her lips before leaning his forehead against hers. “I hope this form is pleasing, it can be altered if you wish.”

“It should be,” the confusion on his face pulls a laugh from her lungs, an overjoyed flirtatiousness spreading through her limbs as she stands on the tips of their toes, bringing their faces closer together. “I’d much rather kiss you, if that’s okay?” It takes approximately four seconds for the meaning to work through his mind and then the guise falls, skin returning to red, vibranium reappearing along his scalp and chin, cold under her palms, and the quick rotation of his irises intoxicating. “That’s better.” Wanda pushes him against the wall, out of view of any prying eyes out the window, pressing her body firmly against his to deepen the kiss, unwilling to subsist on chasteness just in case this is not their time to run just yet.

A buzzing resonates in her ear and she tightens her grip on his wrists, trying to ignore it, but it persists until he reluctantly ends the kiss, eyes losing focus as he raises a polite finger to indicate he is receiving a communication. Wanda watches him with interest, the way his eyes rotate methodically and the tension in his lips as they pucker in concentration. “I have not located Ms. Maximoff yet,” she raises her eyebrows at the playful smile coupled with the wink he gives her, “but based upon interviews with the locals there are numerous reports of red mists in the closes. I believe it may be in the best interest of the mission to remain for another day or two to fully investigate as I believe I am extraordinarily close to fulfilling my mission.” A hand shoving his chest draws his attention down long enough for her to mouth You little liar, and he comes oh so close to rolling his eyes, a gesture she never would have pinned as possible given his posh and gentlemanly manner. “Sorry Mr. Stark, could you repeat that last part?” The smile falls from his lips, tumbling down to the ground, stiffening the easy stance he developed until he is standing at attention, eyes focused first on the sky and then on the street below. “I am certainly taking this mission seriously, there is no need for Secretary Ross to get involved.” Elongated silence suggests Tony is giving one of his trademark soliloquies, likely filled with high levels of snark that attempts to hide his dismay. “Yes, I understand. Thank you, Mr. Stark.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yes, he,” the hesitation in his voice and worry flickering in his mind puts her on edge, fingers gripping his shirt as if that will be enough to keep him here for good this time, “simply said if after these two days I am not successful then Secretary Ross insists I remain at the compound unless otherwise needed.”

Wanda can feel her heart stop, the constriction of her lungs as she struggles to breathe under the weight of the implications almost too much. “What if I come-”

“No.” The sternness in his voice is surprising, even to him if the widening of his eyes is any indication. “I would rather be parted from you then risk placing you back in the Raft.”

“What if,” slowly she runs her hand along his cheek, relishing the feel of smooth skin transitioning into a textured ridge and smoothing back out as she brings her fingers to his lips, “what if we run this time, for real?” Wanda traces her fingers back along the curve of his cheek, nudging his face down just enough for her to brush his lips with her own. “What do you think?”

Vision places his hands back along her sides, fingers tapping against her body, scrunching her shirt each time she kisses him. “I believe for tonight we simply enjoy our time together and tomorrow we can experiment with the successful integration of my disguise into society. Then we make our determination.”

The answer is not, as she feared, a straight no, in fact there is hope in his voice, a rebellious excitement brimming in his mind as he pulls her against him, crushing his mouth to hers in a way that erases all worries from her mind, attention fully focused on the ripple of his muscles under her hand and the heat of his body against hers.

Tomorrow they’ll figure it out, but tonight, tonight she’s going to enjoy every last bit of him.

There have been numerous moments in her life when Wanda awoke to discover the cruel disconnect between the vivid realm of dreams and the stark, unforgiving world. It is no longer possible to even count the number of times Pietro held her hand while she slept only for her to wake up and remember that she became the oldest twin a long, long time ago. Which is why, though she understands she’ll need to move, to open her eyes, start the day eventually, she determines that she is content to simply lay in bed and enjoy this sliver of serenity. The air around her is pleasantly warm, the bed is soft, her body sinking into the embrace of a down comforter that might actually be a cloud, a sensation she’s never experienced, there is a calming thrum of movement from outside, lulling her with far more ease than the static from the radio she has become accustomed to, but most importantly there is the distinct waft of cleanliness laced with alloy hovering around her, bringing a small, satisfied smile to her face.

The bed shifts slightly, tiny reverberations racing through the springs to alert her to movement at her side and her smile broadens.  Lazily she turns towards the window, granting gravity free reign to pull her body along the slope of the bed until she meets resistance, settling against his side, head coming to fall on his pectoral muscle, and her arm wrapping loosely around his waist, her fingers curling into his sweater, enjoying the way the synthesized cashmere slips through her fingers. “Good morning,” agile, gentle fingers brush through her hair in time with the soothing cadence of his greeting.

“You’re real, right?”

His confusion at the inquiry is palpable, her powers lightly brushing the surface of his churning thoughts, a chuckle bubbling up from deep within her chest as he responds. “I believe I am, though I have not considered testing the possibility of being imaginary.”

“Good, then I'm just,” a small readjustment of her body allows her to snuggle closer, body flush against him, right leg swinging up over his thigh, burying her calf between his legs to steal even more of his warmth. Wanda inhales slowly, relishing the realness of his presence, fingers tracing the vibranium beneath his sweater, grounding her in the moment and committing every shallow breath and thump of his synthetic heart to memory, “going to sleep some more.”

The caress of his fingers stops momentarily and she’s certain his head is cocked to the side, eyes squinted inquisitively at her. “It is a quarter past eight already and I intended to rouse you at eight twenty. It seems frivolous to awaken and then return to sleep for five minutes.”

Lazily her eyelids part, enough for her to glare up at him, the dim glow of an overcast morning illuminating the room enough for her to see the affectionate curve of his mouth and a softness in his swirling blue irises that she’s never experienced but that automatically leads to flutters in her stomach and a brief, exhilarating moment where her heart stops. Wanda allows her grin to pull her head up, chin pressing into his chest to better her vantage of his face. “Clearly you’ve never slept if you think that’s frivolous.” His shoulders rise and fall as if to say got me there , which only intensifies the smirk on her face. “So,” relinquishing her grip of his waist, Wanda pushes her hands into his abdomen, lifting herself up enough to be level with his face, placing a tender kiss first to his jawline and following a purposeful, slow line until she reaches his lips, lingering in order to fully appreciate the subtle tinge of vibranium on her tastebuds and the feel of his fingers curling into her side.  She doesn’t pull away, can’t bring herself to break from him but she does continue her point, words moving seamlessly from her lungs to his, “What have you been up to?”

He does not speak immediately, choosing instead to continue the embrace, head tilting to the side to deepen the kiss. Wanda closes her eyes, the sensation of his body under her fingertips and shifting pressure against her mouth causing an electric thrill to dance along her spine, an involuntary constriction of her muscles leading her to grip his body tighter. “I,” eventually, much to her disappointment, he tilts his forehead towards her, the Mindstone cold against her skin, parting their lips, “brought you breakfast.”

“I am good with just you, thanks.” Some things do not change, even after so much time, such as the way her directness flusters him, their close proximity giving her ample opportunity to observe the frantic spin of his irises and the twitch of his upper lip into a nervous smile as he attempts to formulate a response. Wanda steals one last, drawn out kiss, lips lingering and fingers tapping happily against the metal lacing his sternum, then moves to peck his cheek, hand immediately replacing her lips as she pats his face. “I could eat, actually.”

Vision nods, reaching to the side to grab a cardboard wrapped cup and little paper bag from the nightstand. “Tea and a scone.”

“Thanks.” Carefully she brings the cup to her face, sniffing the wispy steam to confirm he has not forgotten her preference for Early Gray with a hint of orange. “I’ve missed this.”

“As have I.” There is a touch of sadness to his response, a mournful reminiscence for their old morning routine, of times when sipping tea and engaging in friendly (and increasingly flirtatious) banter would lead in to days of training.

Wanda lays a hand on his arm, focusing his thoughts on her and not what they had before, not what they still would have if things had not imploded, but what they have now, in this room and what they may, hopefully, have tomorrow. “So what’s on the docket for today?”

“Oh, yes,” a polite finger is lifted to indicate he needs a second, standing and crossing the room, Wanda’s eyes appreciatively following him, striving to sear into her memory the smoothness of his gait, the impeccable fit of his pants, and the delicate way he sifts through a pile of papers on the tiny desk across from the  bed. Once he appears to have found what he wants, he turns back to her with an excited grin, phasing through the bed, instead of walking around it, to resume his position next to her . “I spoke with the concierge about recommendations for today, I explained we only have one day to enjoy the city and he offered various options for our itinerary.” Vision pauses, list half-lifted as his mouth sets into a contemplative line, the gears in his eyes clicking slowly clockwise. “Your breakfast was recommended by him so if it is unacceptable then by logical inference-”

Wanda immediately recognizes the self-defeating spiral of logic (flashes back momentarily to the first time Vision didn’t like one of Sam’s movie recommendations and then threw out the rest of the two page long list) and cuts it off immediately by taking a bite of the scone and giving him a thumbs up. “It’s delicious, don’t worry.”

“Excellent,” a relieved smile smooths out the furrow of concern bunching the skin around the Mindstone, “In that case here is a suggested itinerary, with attempts to include as many different avenues for human contact to fully examine the bounds of my disguise.”

Wanda grabs the list and glances at the roughly twenty items then flips it over to see the route mapped out including durations of each walk, taxi, and bus ride. “This isn’t going to turn into another New York is it?”  

Vision glances at her, eyes flickering quickly to the list and then back to her, mouth a tight-lipped indicator of dour contemplation, fingers picking at the bedsheet as he continues to ponder her comment. “You believe it is too much?”

“Perhaps,” the concept that she can simply lean forward on her knees and capture his lips fills her with amazement, wondering why they waited this long, because she finds it an entirely sufficient method for conveying meaning. A reassuring kiss and hand to his face letting him know she is not annoyed at his planning enthusiasm. If she was ever worried he would struggle with this new, intimate language, the relieved grin on his face and the touch of his hands to her cheeks, pulling her back against his body eradicates those concerns. “Perhaps,” Wanda breaks from him, a breathy laugh falling unhindered from her mouth at the way he frowns when she stands from the bed, “you choose four, maybe five things from that list. I-” her words trail off as she turns in a circle, attempting to locate her coat and shoes.

“In the closet.”

“Oh, thanks.” Wanda opens the mirrored door and finds her coat hung up in a far more organized way than she ever would, opting usually to simply toss it wherever seems best, and then grabs her shoes from the shelf in the closet. “Anyway, I have to go change and check in with the gang so they don’t freak out and launch a search party. I’ll just,” she grabs a pen from the desk and scribbles the address on a piece of stationery, stamped with the hotel logo in the top left corner, “meet me there in like thirty minutes?”

After he gives her an understanding nod, Wanda steps towards the door, turning to wave goodbye, but the sight of Vision relaxed (though not quite slouching) on the bed, red skin more vibrant than ever against the crisp white linens, ankles politely crossed and eyes watching her, lips quirked up into an adorable partial smile, stops her from leaving. Concern pulls his lips down the longer she stands there watching him, “Wanda?”

A quick shake of her head clears her thoughts, wrestling her attention from him and back to the task at hand. “Sorry I just-” he is at her side in seconds, fingers gentle as they lift her chin to gaze into the rotating blue vortices of his soul, the half-cocked smile back on his face and she finds her own mouth mirroring his. “I want,” she waves her hand at the room, eyes never leaving his own but she’s certain he picked up on the gesture, “this, Vizh. I want it so bad.”

“As do I.” The tenderness in his kiss relaxes her body, concerns held at bay so long as he is touching her. His hands move to grip her shoulders, eyes serious, a promise hanging in the air as he assures her,  “I will see you soon.”

After the hotel Wanda finds her own quarters even more depressing, not simply because everything is about three decades older than it should be, but mainly because it is empty with no promise of Vision emerging from the kitchen or turning around to find him relaxed on the bed with not a care in the world besides planning a day together. Four steps is all it takes to reach the desk, fingers fidgeting with a pen as she waits for the morning roll call, thoughts far removed from talking to the team. Impulsively she reaches for the desk drawer, frustration burgeoning as red clouds between her fingers when the drawer gets stuck, yet again, finally jutting out with a loud creak, allowing her to grab a small note pad. Quickly she jots a message down, a sloppy I’m fine, please don’t come looking for me. -W , placing it under the teacup she left on the desk the night before.

Wanda checks the time, leveling an annoyed glare at the silent radio, and stands up, body moving of its own accord as she grabs her duffle bag and begins throwing all of her clothes and the very limited belongings she has into it. If this is going to happen she figures she might as well be ready. Four beeps from the receiver on the desk forces her to abandon the task.

“Who all’s here?” Steve’s voice is neutral and firm, never showing much emotion during these group check-ins.  A quick succession of names follow.

“Nat here.”

“Falcon in the house.”

“Here!” Wanda rolls her eyes, certain that they could be on the run for years and he’d never get this part right. “And by here I mean this is Scott, at your service.”

“Clint’s here.”

Finally she presses the button on the communicator, concerned at the shake of her hand as she responds, terrified that they’ll parse out what happened simply by her name. “Wanda.”

Thankfully Steve continues, not commenting on the quiver in her voice or the unrepentant betrayal seeping deep into her bones. “Alright, anyone have questions about the next step?” Silence fills the air as a show of general concurrence with the plan. “Great.” It seems the call is done, a relieved exhale forcibly leaving her lungs until Steve continues. “Oh, Wanda,” her heart stops, “any word on that flying object from last night.”

“I, um,” somehow she discovers that Vision has become a far smoother liar than herself, a greater appreciation filling her mind at how easily he denied their meeting to Tony, “it was nothing.”

Which seems to be good enough, “Good, see you all in Kilmuir on Thursday.” Each person gives a send off and the radio returns to a stifling static. Wanda pushes back from the desk, hands running through her hair as her gaze moves around the room, checking to make sure she isn’t forgetting anything. Her hand slips into the pocket of her coat, fingers curving around the travel phone they are all required to keep close. If she brings the phone it means, she thinks, that they can track her, is fairly certain at least Nat, and probably Steve, collect GPS coordinates on them. The third time Vision visited her, in Marrakesh, they made the error of meeting outside of the city which is how she discovered there are restrictions on her travel, Nat showing up less than an hour after the rendezvous to check on Wanda.  Slowly she removes it from her pocket, the thought of them tracking her, separating her from Vision again increases her heart rate, hands shaking with mortified anger. But. But what if something happens? An image flashes in her head of Tony and the Raft, a sickening weight forming in her stomach wondering what contraption Stark has made for Vision if he ever goes against the Accords and a hand involuntarily traveling to her neck. She slips the phone back into her pocket. They can always toss it later.

When she steps out of the door there is a well-dressed man waiting in the alley, back leaned against the wall, wearing gray slacks and a wool pea-coat with a matching black scarf. “You make me feel like a slob.”

The blonde-hair man smiles at her, leaving the wall to meet her halfway. “You are gorgeous.”

Wanda grins up at him, hands resting against his chest. “This whole thing is still weird, by the way.” And it is, her mind struggling to reconcile the Vision from this morning with the very un-Vision looking man currently enveloping her in a warm hug. “So what do I call you? Vision seems a bit irregular for going incognito.”

“Ah, yes,” he steps back just enough to meet her eyes, hands running in a soothing pattern along each arm, trailing between her elbow and shoulder. “Victor Shade.”

He doesn’t grin or laugh as he says the name which means she shouldn’t either but the sheer ridiculousness of this whole set-up, of kissing a man whom she doesn’t recognize other than his voice and then having to call him that is too much and she can’t stop the snicker. “I get the Victor part, but Shade? You’re not a private eye, Vizh.”

Hesitantly his mouth opens to respond but then closes, indecision hanging in the air as she watches his eyes move back and forth, contemplating if this is a battle worth having, if he needs to further justify the name to her or simply make the decision that, regardless of objections, it stays. Finally he shrugs, a meek and unconcerned movement that cements this is, if there was doubt, Vision as no other person in existence could make such an action as endearing and alarmingly sexy. “We have a busy day, shall we?”

“Yeah, let’s go.” They turn towards the street, Wanda stepping close next to him, hand reaching down for his own, confused at the uncertain flinch of his fingers and the way his arm can’t seem to determine if it should be straight down or bent to accommodate her request.  Somehow she always forgets how new he is to life, how there is so much he has yet to discover, to contemplate, to experience, even something as simple as holding hands. “Vizh,” his forward momentum comes to a halt at the sound of his name, “you more of a mitten guy or a glove guy?”

He glances at his hands, turning them to investigate his palm, wiggling his fingers as he thinks. “I am not certain I follow.”  

The fact that she can touch him like this in public, can run her hand down his arm and grip his wrist, bringing it up for a quick kiss and demonstration, is delightful and Wanda finds herself enthralled by his reaction. “Mitten,” she forces open his fist, placing her own hand in his, cupping her fingers around the outer edge of his hand, thumb falling in the gap between his thumb and index finger, and then coaxes him to close his hand around hers in a similar manner. Everything in place, she drops their arms and gives an experimental swing. “Now,” a tug brings their joined hands back up and she pries his fingers open, rotating her own hand until their fingers are laced together, “glove.”

“I see,” the wrinkle of skin on his forehead conveys the deep, completely unnecessary yet wholly logical consideration he is putting into the decision. He switches between the options a few times, walking a short distance each time to test the momentum of the swing of their arms and the proximity of their bodies. “I believe the mitten puts the least amount of strain on your arm.”

“I agree, shall we?”

The day goes by far too quickly, each stop on the severely cut down itinerary blurring together. Wanda is aware they went to see a fully-functioning floral clock, can recall the excited gesticulations Vision - well, Victor, she has to keep reminding herself - made as he explained in far more detail than necessary the way the mechanics of the clock work and described the various designs it has had throughout the years. The walk to the castle, the incline far steeper than she imagined it would be even though she logically understands it is situated on a hill, is marred by fat drops of rain. Instead of being annoyed at the slosh of water in her boots, soaking into her wool socks, she is enthralled by the giddy surprise on Vision’s face at the novel experience of water pooling in his hair and dripping into his eyes, and she learns that the rain of Scotland might be qualitatively different from Sokovia or New York, the droplets sweet and refreshing each time she pulls him down for a kiss.

Much to her chagrin they join walking tours off and on, the argument for joining being that it puts them in contact with more people but she’s certain that is pretext for his utter enjoyment of listening to the narratives, Vision always raptly listening to the stories of heroism and horror. The only time he does not insist on joining a random tour is when they stop at the Greyfriars Bobby statue and he recites for her, in a quietly dramatic fashion unique to the gentle lilt of his accent, the story of the police dog that remained forever at the gravesite of his owner.

The biggest adventure of their day is a bus ride to Portobello beach, the dreary weather increasing the number of bodies squished into the bus, Wanda (willingly) sacrificing her comfort to sit on Vision’s lap to allow other people to sit down. It’s on the bus that she notices a young couple across the way staring at her, phones held out in their laps, comparing something on the screen to her face. When one of them starts to raise their phone in an attempted inconspicuous manner, Wanda takes a note from Natasha’s book and turns towards Vision, crushing her lips against his own, his surprise quickly fading away as his hands clutch her waist to keep her from falling away when the bus stops.

For the most part, the day is completely and delightfully mundane, only the couple on the bus and the few people Vision phased through early on (he did not wish to bump them as they walked past) treating them with any suspicion. Despite the apparent success of their venture  Wanda finds that it is difficult for her to adequately describe her feelings as they trudge through the dreary cold, torn between the captivating exhilaration of spending time together as a normal (seemingly at least) couple enjoying the sights and the uneasy dismay she experiences every time she watches Vision have animated and so achingly human conversations with the locals, always asking how the shopkeepers and workers are doing, learning their names, and commenting on the weather. There is a casualness to his stance, an enthusiastic and carefree quality to the cadence of his voice and it infuriates her, seeing the way he’s allowed himself to finally relax around people, to put his personality fully on display only because of the disguise, a simple facade giving him his first true taste of being normal. She dislikes it, might even hate it, that it took a complete metamorphosis for people to respond amiably to him, to make him feel accepted. But, begrudgingly, she also acknowledges that without the guise, without compromising his appearance, this day would not be possible, their hopes for tomorrow would not exist.

It’s not until they are walking along a brick-paved street, the cloud-cloaked sun setting over the impressive stone-faced buildings towering above them, that she finally gives voice to the conversation they’ve been avoiding all day. “So Viz-V,” eventually she’ll get his name down, “any thoughts on tomorrow?”

His gait slows down, feet falling just inches in front of each other as they continue to walk and she worries that the slightly increased pressure of his hand around hers is an ill omen. “A few,” the ambiguity in his voice, the surprising lack of emotion and straight neutrality of his body language is almost unnerving enough for her to dip into his mind, but she steels herself against temptation, desiring to hear him share instead of barging in and taking the thoughts for herself. “I have been contemplating the best course of action and believe we must decide between a metropolitan setting, perhaps Tromso,”

“But it was so cold there.”

A shy arc forms on his mouth, “I believe I could keep you adequately warm, but,” the smile fades back into seriousness, “if we choose a city then there are ample residents to obscure our existence or we find a tiny town where, at least it is my understanding, people do not wish to invite trouble and would be less likely to acknowledge or report us. A quick search shows several promising possibilities in the Scottish highlands if we do not wish to travel far.”

The confidence of his answer, the surety in the way he doesn’t frame it as just a possibility but a fact stops her feet, arm pulling slightly as he continues to walk forward only stopping himself when he realizes she is not following. Slowly he turns towards her, head cocked to the side and eyebrows raised as she drags him back to her. “You’re being serious, right?”

“I do not see how it could be taken as jest.”

Which parts her lips into a broad, toothy grin. “Just checking. So today was a success?”

“A resounding success, not a single person seemed suspicious and,” he hesitates, eyes her to see how she responds to the next part, places his hands comfortingly along her arms to abate any ire that might arise from his words, “for the first time no one treated me,” he pauses again, teeth touching as he says the next word, a melancholic dip in the syllables and fingers flinching at prior memories, “differently.”

Her heart breaks for him, hand lifting to play with his scarf, “You’re perfect without the disguise, you know that right?” A crashing wave of relief spreads from his mind to hers and she grins up at him, attempting to insert some levity back into the moment. “If we’re going to do this I think we need some ground rules for your,” her free hand waves in a rough circle indicating this face, “alter ego.”

“Such as?”

“Well,” a slightly exaggerated elongation of the w draws him closer to her, hands skimming up and down her arm as he waits for her to finish,  “perhaps you treat it like shoes left at the front door.”

“I have never observed you leaving your shoes at the front door.” Wanda often forgets how far he’s come since he was first created. Had the comment been made two years ago, she’d have to recollect her thoughts and rephrase her words to allow him to better understand the comparison she was making. But right now he has a sly smirk on his face and an impish gleam in his pale blue eyes that intensifies the smile on her own face.

“You think you’re so funny.”

A nonchalant shrug meets her words, traveling from his shoulders into his mouth, lips puckered in practiced indifference. “It is not opinion if there is quantifiable proof of your amusement at my words.”

This time she does laugh, hand coming to her mouth to stifle it and her eyes rolling at the spike of satisfied pride in his tone and the rare open-lipped smile on his face. “Just come here.” Wanda grabs a handful of his coat pulling him down to her, heart racing at the way his body responds, the heat building between them as he steps forward, their chests touching and his hands roaming along her arms in time to the rhythm of the kiss.  “Disguise,” another kiss inserts a pause to her response, “front,” and another, each one longer than the previous, fueled solely by the desire to devour every moment with him, “door. Okay?”

“Understood.” Vision steps back, smile still flirting along the edges of his lips. “Would you like to discuss our plans more thoroughly over dinner?”

“Sounds great,” they continue their walk, hands rejoining as he pulls her towards a small, stone-faced restaurant with a sign announcing it, in slanted, cursive font, to be a mediterranean bistro. “This looks promising.”

Vision smiles down at her as they enter through the open archway of the door, informing the hostess they have a reservation under Shade, Wanda’s eyebrows rising approvingly at the level of commitment he took in planning the day, and they are ushered towards a booth at the backend of the restaurant. “I,” he opens the menu, hand resting on the open page pretending to be interested in it, “still have not determined an appropriate excuse for my tendency to not eat and I fear that could elicit undesirable attention.”

Which is a fair point, one Wanda had not yet contemplated. “Well,” she thinks back to the times when he joined her for food when he didn’t have the disguise, the response to his presence already tense and judgmental, only worsened when he informed the workers he would not be consuming anything. But so far they’ve cleared the first hurdle, no one questioning his presence in the establishment. “What if we order an appetizer and a meal and just say we’re sharing it?”

A reassured and satisfied smile barely touches his lips but does light up his eyes.  “That seems acceptable.” She meets his smile and reaches her hand across the table, fingers wiggling invitingly at him until he lays his own hand on top of hers. “Wanda?”

“Yeah?”

He squeezes her hand slowly, a increasingly tight pressure that then loosens back out, repeating the process three more times before he speaks again. “I am concerned that I,” his voice tumbles off again, thoughts shutting down when a waitress comes over and informs them of the specials. Wanda shakes her head to decline anything new and orders for the two of them. Once everything is settled away he glances down at the table, then to the ceiling, eyes rotating back to her last. “I have never known a life other than being a hero, there,” he hesitates again, “seem to be far more norms and understood courses of action for normal life than for the life of an Aveng-.” The word cuts off and he clamps his mouth shut, understanding the danger of uttering the name near other people lest someone makes the connection.

“Well, I’ve known many different lives, and being a hero was certainly one of the better lives. I’m not sure how to transition from what we had, to be honest. But,” now she grips his hand, attempting to channel the sureness of her choice the undeniable desire bursting from her heart and taking over her mind that this life, with him, hero or not, is all she wants, “I think as long as we’re together, we’ll figure it out.”

The uncertainty fades with the scrunch of his eyes created by the lift of his cheeks as he smiles at her. “Then we go back to where ne-” He stops talking, hand raising to his ear, a clear sign that Tony is interfering with their escape, but she misses what he says, attention drawn to the extremely loud and frantic tone of the phone going off in her pocket. Wanda fumbles with the stupid thing, fingers incapable of turning it off or answering for three painfully long seconds. She’s certain everyone is probably staring at her. Once she figures it out she doesn’t get a chance to speak before Steve’s urgent voice is heard.

“Wanda there are reports pouring in about non-human, heavily armed individuals in Edinburgh. Get out now, I’ll meet you in the morning.”

The call ends abruptly and she meets the worried eyes of Vision, each daring the other to talk first, to make the suggestion of what they should do. He breaks, removing his hand from her own and in that instant she knows all the talk of tomorrow was just that, talk. They will never be able to fully shed the duty of their powers. “I, Mr. Stark wishes for me to find a solution to the problem.”

“I’m going with you.”

“No.” The sternness of his voice lashes against her and she flinches, rebellion building in her as she meets his concerned eyes with her passionate refusal of the command. “Wanda, if you go out there they will all know what we have, what we, they will understand the fallacy of my actions.”

Logically she acknowledges this, but irrationally she cannot stomach, cannot fathom allowing him to slip away from her again. “Fine, but if anything happens I’m helping, got it?”

“Understood.” He stands swiftly from the table, hesitates in walking away, instead choosing to take a step in her direction, stooping down to kiss her one more time before he walks out the door, a flash of gold fluttering just outside the window as he sheds his cover.

It is eerily silent, only the nervous scratch of her nails against the table as she grips the edge, eyes closing to allow her to concentrate on tracking his movements, following his mind as he approaches the threat. Then her mind explodes, a searing, debilitating pain puncturing her chest, forcing a shocked gasp from her lungs that seems to be echoed around the room as every other patron pushes their chairs back, most rushing towards the back of the restaurant and the others towards the windows. Then a sound she has never heard before cuts through the still air, Vision's deafening, agonizing scream.

She leaps from the table, booth scratching loudly against the floor at the force of her movement, and she rushes to the doorway, hands engulfed in a raging fire of red as she takes in the scene in the street.  Vision, in all his synthetic, vibranium laced perfection, is laying on the ground flanked on either side by decidedly non-human bodies.  A grotesque, cloaked, bandy legged creature sneers down as it presses the edge of a curved blade into Vision’s chest eliciting another scream that mixes with what sounds like laughter coming from the horned woman holding another spear aloft. Wanda finds her mind blank, hands raised as she attempts to reconcile the sight, attempts to discern the best path forward, eyes moving around the crowd and buildings to determine how to do this without collateral damage, which is how she finds herself screaming without putting thought to the words, a desperate, “Stop, you’re hurting him!”

The horned woman turns towards her, a mocking, malevolently pleased smirk pulling the blue skin of her face as she speaks to her partner, instructing him to continue, the ache of Vision’s screams finally force Wanda’s body to react. Crimson bursts from her hands, eyes narrowing as she focuses in on Vision, her powers reaching out in snakelike tendrils until she can feel the weight of his body in her arms, and then she jerks her hands up, watches as he rises up from between the two assailants, their heads turning to watch as his limp body travels up and to the right. Wanda keeps her hands raised, teeth clenched at the effort of lifting Vision, concern constricting around her heart at the intense weight of his body and the fact that these creatures injured him at his densest.

She is so concentrated on bringing him to safety that she fails to consider what the two spear-wielders are doing until a burst of purple light hits Wanda in the chest, forcing all air from her lungs as she feels her body thrown up and into the stone facade of the restaurant, hitting her head hard enough that flashes of light burst into her view and then she can feel the unpleasant crunch of broken glass and gravel against her hands and face when she promptly returns to the ground. Wanda heaves in a broken, quivering breath, striving to block the pain in her twisted and cut wrist as she lifts herself from the pavement, eyes automatically moving to assess the location of the three bodies.  Vision is on the ground about fifty feet away but she does not see the other two.

Someone behind her whispers an encouraging, “You got this,” and Wanda nods in agreement, standing on shaky legs as she runs over to Vision, her hands skimming the textured fabric of his uniform, fingers stopping to prod gently at the deep gash in the center of his chest, the spear going through the metal clasp of his cape and catching him between the plates the vibranium. She’d never considered if he could bleed as he’d never been, to her knowledge, injured physically, but unfortunately the answer is yes, a viscous, maroon dribble of blood staining the blue of his suit. “Vision…” his name falls out as a whisper, a plea to open his eyes and move, the next attempt a bit more forceful, “Vision,” and the last one a strangled scream and a rush of red from her hand into the Mindstone, “Vision!”

A hand wraps around her wrist and the breath she had been holding stumbles from her lungs along with the onset of tears when he opens his eyes. “Wanda, I.”

The thud of feet behind and in front of her draws her attention up from the frazzled and disbelieving turn of his irises, and she meets the sneering, sharp-toothed maw of what might be a goblin, which means the woman is behind her. Wanda glares at the man, feels the raging flow of scarlet energy in her limbs when she notices the smear of red on the tip of the spear, and she whispers a small, dangerous “No,” and the world erupts in scarlet, blasting the goblin-man out of her sight and behind her the satisfying smack of a body against the road is enough to bring a smile to her face. “Come on,” Wanda moves her hands under his arms and helps Vision get to his feet, bracing his body as he stumbles forward a step before regaining his balance. “Let’s go,” but he refuses to move and she turns to follow his gaze, watching as the cloaked man helps up the horned woman, their bodies mirroring the grip Wanda has on Vision. “Huh.”

The meaning behind their actions doesn’t have time to sink in as another purple blast from the woman’s spear forces Wanda to part from Vision. She watches as he clutches his fingers into fists and powers up the Mindstone, her own hands channeling scarlet orbs as they prepare to meet the threat. The cloaked goblin-man heads for Vision which means Wanda gets the pleasure of dealing with the blue-faced, horned woman again. In the time since the Accords fallout, starting in Wakanda, Steve began utilizing bo staffs instead of a shield, which meant their training sessions required new techniques. As Wanda ducks under the horned-woman’s staff she raises a silent thanks to Steve for his choice of weapon, her body accustomed now to the ducking and diving, shifting from one side to the other, spinning while on her knees and using her powers to counteract the pushing and prodding of a staff. For a time the two of them are even, metal staff meeting scarlet blasts, a careful, beautiful dance of trained footwork meaning neither has the upper hand. But then another scream from her side, another crash of despair in her mind arrests her attention long enough for the woman to land her staff to Wanda’s back, sending her crashing into the pavement, a foot and the sharp end of the spear digging into the skin between her shoulder blades. “It is best for you to give up now.”

The woman’s voice is not as odd as Wanda had assumed, raspy but clear and articulate. Wanda doesn’t respond, never enjoying the banter her teammates insist on holding with their enemies, instead she focuses on turning her palms towards her body, forcing her powers up through her so that they blast the woman in the face, tossing her to the side. Her actions surprise her assailant long enough for Wanda to get to her feet, eyes frantically searching until they come to rest on Vision shoved against a wall with a spear to his forehead. “Stop!”

The cloaked man doesn’t acknowledge her and neither does Vision, but she hopes that his renewed struggle, the way his hands come to wrap around the man’s shoulders and his body phases means he heard her. But a flash of purple in her periphery requires that Wanda leaves Vision to his own fight, turning to meet the sight of a wave of energy rushing towards her face. Wanda raises her hands, enveloping the energy and bending backwards, sending it into a nearby truck that explodes on contact, the flames flickering in the puddles of water between the bricks of the road.

Without hesitation the horned-woman thrusts her spear towards Wanda, renewing their game of dodge and evade, Wanda attempting to guide their fighting closer to Vision so that perhaps she can help him, heart constricting every time he screams. When the spear comes inches from her face, only caught by a thin tendril of scarlet, she decides to finally engage the woman in a new way. “What do you want?”

Her smile is sickening, prideful and filled with glorified purpose as she charges up the spear for another blast. “We want the Mindstone.”

Oh. Wanda’s mind crashes to a halt, implications drawing her gaze to the side where Vision has moved the struggle so that he is not backed against a wall but still the spear hovers menacingly near his forehead. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

“Thanos will not stop until it is his,” the accumulation of purple light reaches its peak and Wanda knows she’ll need to figure out an action fast lest she be obliterated right there, “best to hand it over now.”

Wanda thinks back to the way the goblin-man reacted after her last blast, the touch of his fingers just below the mask, caressing the blue skin of his partner much like Vision had earlier in the day, on the parapet of the castle before his lips brushed hers. “Never.” With an anguished cry Wanda wraps the purple globe that bursts from the spear and sends it careening into the goblin-man, knocking him away from Vision and sending him through a storefront window. A cry pierces her ears, the thump of a spear butt against the back of her head clouding her vision, the world erupting in starbursts of white light. She thinks she hears a threatened whisper, thinks she sees the white glow of eyes level with her face, but can’t determine if it is real or a result of her concussion.  But even after the face is gone the threat remains deep in her stomach, a thousand pound promise that it isn’t over. You haven’t won, we will be back for the stone.

A pained gasp comes from her mouth as she pushes off of the ground, certain at least her wrist is sprained if not broken, but it doesn’t matter, attention focused on the way Vision’s limbs go limp as he crumples to the ground, their assailants nowhere in sight. “Vizh,” she drops to her knees, cradles his head in her lap, hand shaking as she attempts to convey a soothing sense of calm to him, stomach churning at the chunk of skin missing next to the Mindstone, the vibranium casing bent out in one part and dented in another around the stone. “Come on, we need to go.” Wanda can sense the crowds forming around them, shocked silence mingling with the unmistakable clicks and flashes of phones, their exploits likely reaching a viral status before the fight even ended. It takes more effort this time to get him to his feet, she has to coax him to change his density, lighten his body so she can help drag him through the street. Luckily no one is stupid enough to stand in their way.

Eventually they arrive at her room and immediately the intruder alarms go off, sensing the second body with her but she ignores it, knows their cover is blown and the only thing that matters at the moment is Vision and stopping the bleeding, assessing his injuries so they can determine the next step. “Okay, let’s just,” she guides his body towards the still folded down murphy bed, throws the half filled duffle bag from the bed with a blast of red, “come on Vizh, a little help here.” His fingers dig into her arm, eruptions of pain radiating under his fingertips but she ignores it, instead directing all of her energy to helping him lay his head on the pillows and lifting his feet, swinging the lower half of his body until he’s fully on the bed. Wanda laughs, a half-hearted, confused, and gurgled sound at the ridiculous sight of his lanky body, feet hanging off the end of the too short bed. And then the strangled sound morphs into a sob as she collapses into the chair next to him, hand gripping his own as she realizes what happened, as she has a brief thought flash into her head about how this was never what she had in mind when she longed to have him in her bed.

“Wanda,” his fingers close around hers, the grip weak but filled with endless pain and regret.

“We should,” she sighs, free hand wiping the annoyingly constant stream of salty tears from her eyes, “we need to contact them.”  

Vision attempts to sit up, “But tomorrow…” she pushes him down with a whip of red, shaking her head at the thoughts she feels him having, the memories of their perfect, mundane day , the exhilaration of their plan, the house he’d already located in the Highlands but had yet to tell her about.

“Vizh, it was a facade, nothing more.” Wanda stands up, dropping his hand long enough to crawl into bed next to him, lips pressing fiercely into his cheek. “We aren’t normal, we can never be normal.” The prick of despair in his mind coincides with his eyelids clasping shut, the loss of their life emerging as tears in the corners of his eyes. She lifts herself up slightly, kisses the tears from his cheeks and then leans her forehead to his, but away from the injury. Reluctantly Wanda grabs the phone from her pocket, amazed it survived the fight, and she hits 9, the shortcut to contact the entire network. “Mayday, mayday, we need help, please anyone who is close we need help. Repeat we need help.”

The crackle of voices fade into the background as she wraps herself around his body and tries not to think about what tomorrow will bring.

Pictures/Videos used for this story:

http://those-celestial-bodies.tumblr.com/post/159914860194/in-sequence-over-a-single-take-that-had-by-far

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sDg1H9pJImw